Ken Gosse

Ken Gosse generally writes light poetry using simple language, meter, and rhyme in verses filled with whimsy and humor. First published in The First Literary Review–East in 2016, his poetry is also online with Academy of the Heart and Mind, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Home Planet News, Impspired, and others. He is also in print anthologies from Pure Slush, The Coil, Truth Serum Press, Peking Cat, and others. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, he and his wife have lived in Indiana, Texas, Oklahoma, Germany, Virginia, and now in Mesa, Arizona over twenty years with two or more rescue dogs and cats always underfoot. Their four children and their grandchildren are scattered around the county, mostly at long distances.

Playing the Pyramid

Playing the Pyramid

The

Pharaoh’s
maestro,

D’oh-Raymese,
liked to please.
Played with ease

piano keys,
ukuleles,
and spoons on knees—
a jazzy breeze

to keep things upbeat
though melancholy,
knowing the downbeat
was their finale,
sealed within the gloom

deep in their Pharaoh’s tomb
with barely ample room
for dancing to their doom.
This life would not resume
but music helped consume
the darkness of this womb.

Though their time was nearly out—
the air was quickly thinning—
yet they sang without a doubt
believing they were winning,
hoping they would soon be free
to start a new beginning:
Do, re, mi …
fa … sol …
la …
ti

The following verses were among many found on the tomb’s walls:

Artificial Smiles

(by D’oh-Raymese)

Dopamine can make you smile,
radiating like the day.
Me? It’s been a long, long while—
far ago and long away.
So, I might look for a source
lots of others use, of course,
teaming with undue remorse
when we splash down with a “D’oh!”

Blogs of a Feather

(by D’oh-Raymese)

Doppelgangers everywhere
raining down like cats and dogs.
Me, I garner deep despair
following so many blogs.
So alike—I’m plagiarized!
Lattes help. I’ve realized
teams of them should be franchised,
but they won’t send me their dough!

The Sourdough Song

(by D’oh-Raymese)

Dopey was the name they’d use,
raining on my every plan.
Meaning harm, they’d disabuse:
“Folly! He is not a man!”
So, I’d give in and I’d run,
lamenting I’d never won;
teeny blot beneath the sun
eating bitter sourdough!

Advice Not Taken

(by D’oh-Raymese)

Dodos are my favorite food;
raisin stuffing’s very nice.
Mealtime puts me in the mood.
Father gave us this advice:
“Solo stalking of your prey,
lassoing’s the noble way,
teamwork’s fine—just one-a-day,
or you’ll run out of Dodos.”

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